My knowledge is not deep enough to explain that mystery.
As I see it, he was punished by the Divine Majesty:
when a thing is no accident it's inclined to be Providence.
As soon as he stumbled I pressed him harder still,
and though he found his feet again that slip was his undoing –
because I cut him in two places in that rush I made at him.
When he felt he was wounded he started to groan a bit,
but he was tough as indians come and his courage didn't break ...
Out of his throat there came a noise like the howling of a dog.
He was wounded in the head and the blood got in his eyes,
from another gash it fell and made a puddle where he stood --
he was splashing in it with his feet and still without weakening.
Three impressive figures we made, the group of us:
she in her mothers' anguish, me with my tongue hanging out,
and the savage like a raging beast let loose out of hell.
The indian had begun to realise he'd heard the order to massacre:
his hair stood on end and his eyes rolled round:
his lips shrank inwards every time he drew breath.
Closing with him once again I struck him a deep blow,
and when he felt he was badly hurt the indian -- frantic now --
let out a terrible scream... It echoed like the noise
the whole earth would make if it shook.
And at the end of the long struggle I lifted him on the knife:
I lifted up that son of the desert with the whole of his weight –
spitted through, I carried him and I only threw him down
when I could feel he was dead.
I crossed myself, giving thanks to God for having saved my life;
and the poor tormented woman, on her knees on the ground,
looked up to heaven sobbing in her grief.
I too knelt at her side to give thanks to my Saint,
while in her sorrow and despair, weeping bitterly,
she begged the Mother of God to help the two of us.
When she'd finished her prayer she got up, stately as a lioness,
and without stopping crying she wrapped up in some rags
the pieces of her baby that I helped her to gather up.
NOTES to II.9
II.9.6] that can't misfire] firearms were notoriously unreliable, unlike the knife (see also I.10.26)
II.9.19] belt-cloth] the chiripa (see I.7.20), a cloth looped under the legs, secured by a sash.
II.9.37] the order to massacre] i.e.no quarter given (see I.1.12)
II.9.41] my Saint] san Martin, also patron saint of the Argentine Republic, and coincidentally the surname of the Liberator, Jose de San Martin.
After that, it was high time to get out of the desert.
They'd have found me out, and even though I killed him in fair fight
they'd have speared me through for sure to revenge the dead indian.
I gave my horse to the poor captive woman –
it was a colt I'd got hold of, and no matter where it was,
as soon as I whistled, it'd come and rub its head against me.
I got on the indian's horse, it was a black without a mark ...
When I'm well mounted there's no holding me --
and this was fast as a greyhound, trained to run with the bolas round its feet.*
Galloping over rough country there was nothing could bring it down.
They train them for that, and get them to go like streaks of light,
so they can ride right up to the ostriches and throw the bolas beneath the neck.
The pampa indians train a horse as if for fighting at close range:
it'll go like a flash of lightning at a touch of the indian's hand,
with a mouth so light it'll spin like a top and turn on the length of a hide.
They exercise them in the early morning -- it's a task they never miss –
and then they teach them to gallop in mud and loose sand:
that's why those animals of theirs are the best you'll over see.
There's no danger of falling on a pampa indian's horse --
pucha! and as for racing it's a breed that never tires.
They tame them with the greatest care instead of letting them buck.*
They handle them gently to cure their ticklishness:
they' ll spend hours on end at it and only leave the horse finally
when it's put its ears down slack and won't even kick any more.
They never use violence on them, because they treat a horse
with such patience, there's none to touch it -- they don't beat them, breaking them in,
and so by the end they're left with a beast that's already quiet.
And though I can sit a bucking colt and stir the dust to break it,
I'll adapt myself to the indian way ... They treat them patiently,
and the next day they can leave them with loose rein beside the tent.
And so, anyone whose aim it is to own a model horse
has to care for ittirelessly, and he's also got to see
that no one uses the whip on it or drags at its mouth when it's down.
Many people think they'll break a horse by cruelty and the whip –
and if they see it' s an ugly-looking beast that shows signs of viciousness,
they'll lash its head tight to a stake till it pulls its neck out of joint.
They'll use all sorts of excuses and ways to get round saddling it:
they say it's to break the horse's will -- but any fool can tell
it's because they're afraid of how it'll buck and they won't admit to it.
The horse is an animal -- excuse me for mentioning it –
which has plenty of good sense and plenty of feelings too:
it's a creature that thrives on affection, and it's patience that conquers it.
A man who understands these things has an advantage over the rest.
It's good to learn-- because there are few horse-tamers worth the name,
and a lot of bunglers going round with a tamer's halter and rein.
*
As I told you, I came back with the woman as companion.
We travelled the whole night through, and we made our way
with Fate as our only guide to take us where it chose.
As for the corpse, I'd done mybest to bury it in a stretch of grassland,
and after I'd disposed of it I covered it well with the grass
soas to take advantage of the time they'd take finding it.
When they noticed we were missing they were sure to follow us:
and when I made up my mind to come back, I'd resolved
from the bottom of my heart, to make it a fight to the death.
It's a very serious danger to cross the desert on the run:
a great many have died from hunger, because running that kind of risk
you can't even make a fire in case you'll be found out.
Only a man's good judgment can help him to survive.
There's no hope of being rescued, only God can come to your aid ...
It's a rare thing, in the desert, for a man to come through alive.
There's nothing but sky and horizon on the great green plain ...
Pity the man who finds he's lost or gets his direction wrong!
If anyone has a mind to cross it remember this advice:
Mark your course in the daytime asclosely as you can:
travel without delaying and follow it steadily,
and if you sleep, lay your head towards the direction you're going in.
Watch very carefully where the sun comes up:
if there's a mist that hides it and you can't see it clear,
beware of moving then – because if you get lost, you're done for.
God gave special instincts to every single living thing.
Man counts as one of them, and on that level plain
he's guided by the sun and the stars, by the wind, and by animals.
In the daytime, to hide ourselves out of sight of the savages,
we'd reach a stopping-place where there was some kind of shelter
and wait till nightfall to carry on with our journey.
We endured all kinds of hardships and misery:
several times we went without eating or only ate raw meat,
and sometimes, believe me, we kept alive on roots.
And after many days of suffering this danger and anxiety,
we came through safely, to where we could make out a range of hills –
and finally, we trod the earth of the land where the ombu grows.*
There was new sorrow in my heart for Cruz, as we stopped there;
and, humbly bowing to the will of Almighty God,
I kissed the blessed soil where now the savage no longer treads.
So in the end the mercy of God came to our aid.
What we must do is bear our trials with an unswerving mind …
After all this suffering we reached the house of a ranch.
Straight away, I said goodbye to my sad companion.
I told her, “I'm off, it's no matter where, even though the Government gets me –
taking hell for hell, I'd rather have the one at the frontier.”
I've come to the end of this story and I won't go on any more.
Give me leave to rest now -- my sons are with us here
and I'm keen to hear them tell us whatever they may have to tell.
NOTES to II.10
II.10.3] with the bolas round its feet] i.e. trained to keep going even with its legs entangled (see I.3.36)
II.10.7] without letting them buck] horse-taming as opposed to 'breaking' by gaucho methods – see I.2.9-12 and note.
II.10.27] ombu] (om-BU), the characteristic 'tree' (technically not one) of the pampa, with spreading fibrous roots and branches.
And so, while I take a swig to freshen my throat,
and the boy's busy tuning up and getting ready to play
I'll tell you how it was that we came across each other.
I'd gone up to one or two ranches, trying to find out something for certain –
thinking that after so many years things would have straightened out,
but all I managed to get clear was that the position hadn't changed.
So I went on as I was, keeping out of sight,
because it didn't suit me to stir up the wasps' nest.
You won't need to be told that in a reckoning with the Government
sooner or later they call on a poor man to pay the bill.
In the end, however, I was lucky as I met with an old friend
who could inform me about everything -- and the first I learnt from him
was that the Judge who used to persecute me had been dead for quite a time.
On his account, I've spent ten years of suffering --
and ten years is a lot of time for a man who's getting old.
And this is how I've spent them, if I'm not adding up wrong:
three years at the frontier, two living as an outlaw,
and five out there among the indians -- that makes up the ten I reckon.
This friend also told me I could go about openly,
things were all quiet now, the government didn't persecute you
and by now no one remembered about the death of the black man --
though even if I did kill him a lot of it was the darky's fault.
I was a bit reckless, that I'll admit,
but it was him drove me to it because he gave me the first cut –
and he cut me on the face, besides, which is a very serious matter.
The same friend assured me, by now no one gave a thought
to the man in the store that I'd left showing his guts ...
He came looking for me out of boastfulness, that was not my fault at all –
he challenged me of his own accord, and maybe he'd have killed me
if I'd been more trusting or just a bit more slow.
That was his fault entirely, because he started the thing.
And they didn't talk any more either, he told me positively,
about the time I came to have the fight with the troop of police...
That time it was self‑defence and I was within my rights,
because they came to get me at night and in open country.
They went for me armed, they never cautioned me properly,
and started yelling out threats enough to frighten anyone --
saying they'd settle my accounts, and treating me as a bandit –
and it wasn't even their chief who said it, but just a nobody.
And this is not the way to settle things, it seems to me –
not with an innocent man, nor even less with a guilty one.
I was very pleased to hear news like this,
and showed my face anywhere I wanted, as any other man can do.
As for my sons, so far I've found only two of them –
and I give thanks to Heaven for this happy meeting.
I'd talked to everyone and made enquiries for them,
but nobody could give me any clue to their whereabouts.
By chance, the other day, I happened to hear
of a big race meeting to be held among several ranchers,
and I went along as one of the crowd even though I'd not a cent on me.
As you'll imagine, in that great crowd of gauchos, there were bound to be
many who'd heard by then the story of Martin Fierro -
and the boys were there also, in charge of some racehorses.
As soon as they heard my name mentioned they came along straight away
and told me who they were -- though they didn't recognise me,
because I was dark as an indian and they thought I looked very old.
The business of hugging and crying, and kissing
is best left to women, that's their kind of game –
men understand that everyone feels things in the same way,
so they'll dance and sing in public but cry and embrace privately.
All my sons have told me so far is that my wife has died …
She went to the town, poor woman, in search of one of the boys,
and there she must have suffered endless hardships, for sure.
In the end she landed in a hospital, half dead –
and there she died soon afterwards, in that pit full of evils.
I swear to you, I'll never find comfort for the loss of her;
since I heard what happened I've shed many tears.
But let's leave sad things -- even though I've no cheerful ones.
It looks as if the boy's tuned up and is ready to start –
let's see how he makes out, and what we make of his performance.
They're strangers to you, but I've got confidence in them:
not because they're of my blood -- that would be the least of it –
but because ever since they were children they've lived a life of suffering.
They're keen spirits, both of them, they like to play with fire ...
Let's see their paces: if they run lame, well -- like father, like sons.
Martin Fierro's Eldest Son
It's true that a branch takes after the tree that it comes from,
but what my mother used to say -- and I'll abide by her judgment –
is that a son can never speak with his father's authority.
You'll remember that we were left with no place to shelter in,
without a roof to stand under or a corner to creep into,
without a shirt to put on us nor a poncho to cover ourselves.
It's a happy man who doesn't know what it means to live unprotected:
I can tell you truthfully though everyone knows it well –
ever since I was a child I've lived with no one to protect me at all.
Even the ones who give you help don't make your life any less hard.
Maybe it's because there's no rubbing out what's written in your destiny –
everywhere, they chase you off like a stray calf that's spoiling the crops.
So you live like the creeping things looking for a hole to hide in.
An orphan is just vermin that nobody's sorry for –
and when you've no one to guide you you're like a guitar without pegs.
I'll be sorry if what I'm saying goes for anyone listening here:
I had no home, and no mother, no friends, no relatives –
and when you've got no father everyone treats you like dirt.
One lashes out at you with a whip and another one knocks you silly,
someone else smacks you in the face -- and when you've put up with all this
sometimes you don't even find anyone who'll throw you a scrap.
And if they do take you in, they treat you severely as possible –
they think it's a lot, maybe, when your skin's showing through your clothes,
if they give you an old rag to cover your nakedness.
I grew up, then, as I've. told you, naked sometimes and hungry too.
I earned enough to live on and so the years passed by...
When I grew a man, there were other kinds of torment in wait for me.
I beg you all not to forget the things I'm going to tell you:
I learnt my lessons at the school of suffering
and I've done plenty of thinking since I started in life.
If I don't do it correctly it's on account of my ignorance.